


I'm Still Here

by AlwaysJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Annoyed Sherlock, Endearments, Helpful Sherlock, Helpless John, Kissing, M/M, Massage, Naked John, Prickly John, Retro Sherlock...briefly, Sherlock falls apart, hostage john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 08:56:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3563756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/pseuds/AlwaysJohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Jawn?"</p>
<p>Sherlock knew the instant John went still at the sound of his name, an echo of long ago insecurities tossed aside and now vaguely remembered. Curly head cradled over a strong, steady heart, John's loving touch upon his cheek calming like nothing else ever would...</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Still Here

"My fault, it's my fault. I never should have let him go on his own," he whispered to himself as his mind threatened to undermine his need to remain calm. Blaming himself served no purpose and it wouldn't help John.

Holding the never mentioned army weapon in both hands, Sherlock slipped around the corner and stopped. The corridor, six doors, three on each side, stretched long and narrow before him.

"He has to be here. Mycroft said he was here. Mycroft's never wrong. This would be a bad time for you to be wrong, brother dear."

A firm hand clamped around his arm, forcing him to look over his shoulder. Lestrade leaned in close.

"Take it slow, Sherlock," he whispered. "Keep your head."

"He's here, I know he's here."

Lestrade stared at him. Sherlock allowed no one but John to look at him with such intensity, so he scowled his displeasure.

Lestrade continued his scrutiny for a moment, then his face softened. "Sherlock, it's not your fault. You couldn't have guessed this would happen."

He shook his head. "I should have known John would go off on his own. It should have been me, not John...and I never guess."

"Yes, you do," John's voice echoed in his mind.

Lestrade huffed and shook his head. "Sherlock, let's just find John and get out of here."

He nodded once, much like John often did, stood at the head of the corridor observing the scene before him, shutting out everything, including the DI, and commanded his thoughts to obey him.

"Where are you, John?"

He held up his hand to avoid any distraction from Lestrade.

"John, tell me where you are."

It was barely a sound, an intermittent tapping, but he obeyed its call, edging his way along the corridor, stopping at the first door. Lestrade followed close behind. Easing the door open, Sherlock stepped inside. The room was empty. John was not there.

"John, I need you to help me."

Sherlock didn't believe in telepathy, but he believed in his and John's innate ability to communicate on a deeper level, each sensing the other's presence. John was here, of that he had no doubt.

Taking a position at the center of the corridor, Sherlock studied every aspect of the scene before him for anything out of order, anything that would lead him to John.

"Come on, John, tell me where you are. Give me something."

The tapping he'd heard moments earlier resumed only briefly, but it was just long enough to lead him to its source.

Approaching the door opposite the one he'd already opened, he paused, his fingers circling the doorknob, and once again swept his gaze along the walls.

"Oh." His whisper caught Lestrade's attention, drawing him to his side.

"What?"

Sherlock pointed toward the end of the corridor. "Do you see it?"

"What am I looking for, Sherlock?"

"You see, but you do not observe, Greg." Habit supplied the words he instantly regretted when he saw the frown on Greg's face.

"Sherlock."

"The last door, Greg, it's open."

Lestrade followed his gaze, grinning when he, too, saw the only door that was ajar.

Swallowing hard, suddenly and uncommonly afraid of what lay behind the door, Sherlock paused. Standing to his left, facing the direction from which they'd entered, Lestrade protected their only known exit.

He was just about to ease the door open when there came from within the unmistakeable sound of body impact, and a familiar moan. Weapon drawn, he pushed the door wide and stepped into the room.

"John!"

In less than three seconds, he deduced exactly what had happened just seconds earlier, and that John could not have been the one leading him to this room. Pocketing his, no, John's gun, he crossed the distance to his best friend in three long strides.

Handcuffed with his arms above his head, John stood on bare tiptoes and quivering legs. Eyes blown wide as he struggled to breathe, his army doctor stared back at him, tears of relief brimming. Blood streaked along one side of his face from a gash at his temple that had dripped onto his T-shirt. The tape across John's mouth was stained with the blood still streaming from his nose. And the man who had been his captor lay unconscious at John's feet. Sherlock already knew that the blood on John's foot and the corresponding blood on the other man's nose and mouth were one and the same.

With his arms around John's hips, Sherlock lifted the doctor to allow Lestrade to free the handcuffs holding John's wrists from the chain and hook above his head and eased him down onto the floor.

Supporting John from behind, Sherlock stripped off his Belstaff and wrapped it around his doctor. He leaned over John's shoulder, gingerly peeling away the tape from his mouth.

"Sh...r...ock?" John said as he rotated his jaw.

"Yes, John, I'm here. Greg, too."

"Key."

"Key?"

"He has...the key...handcuffs. He knew you...were here. He was tap-ping to...lead you...into a trap."

Greg moved to search the unconscious man's pockets and seconds later, John was free of the handcuffs.

Up until that moment, John had seemed to be in good condition, but when he began to shiver and his teeth chattered, Sherlock struggled to hold his own panic in check.

"Sherrr...ock?"

"I'm here."

John looked at him with cloudy eyes.

"I...think...Sherr...ock..."

"What is it, John, what's wrong?"

"Sherrr...?"

"You're perspiring, John."

"Dizzy."

"John..."

"Weak," John whispered.

"Sherlock, it might be...shock?"

"John, are you going into shock?"

John nodded as his eyes closed and his body went limp.

Sherlock raised his eyes to meet Greg's, fear rising in his throat. "We need to hurry."

"Car's just outside."

Sherlock lifted John into his arms as Lestrade quickly gathered John's belongings and took the lead just as Sally Donovan appeared at the opposite end of the corridor.

"Donovan, take charge. Kidnapping and assault on John Watson. We're off to A&E."

"I'll take care of everything."

~0~

"There is no reason to keep Dr. Watson for observation. No concussion, no hypothermia, but he is dehydrated. He's breathing easier now that the blood has been cleared from his nose. No broken bones, and although both shoulders were somewhat hyperextended, there is no structural damage. He'll experience some weakness for a time. Rest is indicated and when he feels up to it, he can begin light exercises."

Turning from John to the doctor, the detective filed away the information for later. "May I take him home now?"

Dr. Merrick smiled and nodded. "Of course. Give him plenty of fluids and let him sleep as much as he needs. He should be feeling better in a few days. I'll have the nurse remove his nasal cannula. You can stop by the desk and sign the discharge papers and he's free to go."

Sherlock stared at Dr. Merrick at length before deciding that John's care had been adequate. John Watson was the only doctor whose expertise he trusted. He and John would discuss his care further once they were at home.

"Thank you."

The attending physician raised his eyebrows, holding Sherlock's intense gaze, and barely smothering a smile as he turned to leave.

"You're very welcome, Mr. Holmes."

Eyes narrowed with suspicion, Sherlock glared at Dr. Merrick's retreating back. "Mycroft," he muttered under his breath once the door closed.

The door opened once more as the doctor returned just long enough to deliver John's prescription. "Do give my regards to your brother."

Grateful though he was, Sherlock took a moment to curse his brother's interference. "Your pointy nose is everywhere, brother dear."

The nurse entered the room only moments after the doctor departed, her hurried manner disturbing John's sleep enough for him to protest. To Sherlock's approval, she left as quickly as she arrived.

John's soft moan drew Sherlock to the side of the bed. Holding one of his doctor's hands between both of his, he leaned in close to John's bruised cheek.

"If you're...gonna get...that c-close, you'd b-better kiss me."

Sherlock chuckled, obeying John's slurred command with a soft, languid kiss to comfort them both. He nuzzled into John's neck just enough to make his army doctor sigh and to distract himself as an unaccustomed moment of the wobbly knees forced him to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Mmm. Nice."

He now knew John was not seriously injured, and that there was no reason to allow panic to take root. Regardless, something akin to free-floating anxiety or fear plagued him, as if his eyes, and therefore his mind, doubted what was the truth: John was safe.

"How are you feeling?"

"After that kiss, m-much better...n-now." John struggled to keep his eyes open.

"Happy to help, John."

"Can we leave now?"

"If you wish."

"I wish."

Ten minutes later, a stitched, bandaged and wobbly John Watson sat on the edge of the bed as Sherlock tied his shoes. Gently threading John's arms into his coat, Sherlock zipped the front and patted his cheek to get his attention.

"Got your breath, Dr. Watson?"

John smiled up at him. "Ready when you are, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock chuckled deep in his throat, tucked John's head beneath his chin for a brief moment and wrapped his long arms around him.

"That's Consulting Detective Holmes to you."

"Ah, yes, the only one in the world...pity."

Sherlock pulled back, resting his hands on John's shoulders, and frowned with concern at John's reply. "Sorry?"

Sherlock relaxed when John's mouth turned up into the smile reserved just for him.

"I like it when you use an endearment," he said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

"As do I...my little muffin."

John giggled softly, tilting his head back to capture Sherlock's lips.

"Thank you for finding me."

Sherlock pressed his lips against John's ear. "Oh, I will always find you."

John shivered.

~0~

During the cab ride back to Baker Street, John drifted in and out of sleep. Sherlock smiled at the small groans and moans as he shifted beneath his arm, restlessly trying to find a comfortable position.

"It won't be much longer, John."

"All right."

"As soon as we get home, I will bathe you, feed you up, medicate you and take you to bed."

John tipped his head to look up at him. "That's a lot of yous, Sherlock," John whispered, his eyelids drooping when Sherlock traced his mouth with a fingertip.

John turned just so, to rest his head against Sherlock's shoulder, and rub his cheek into the soft Belstaff wool. Under the watchful eye of the cabbie, the detective leaned down to kiss the top of John's head. When he caught the cabbie watching them in the rear view mirror and rolling his eyes, Sherlock grinned, kissed John's crown a second time, and held him tighter against his body.

~0~

"Sherlock...I'm not an invalid, I can bathe myself."

"John, you're injured, your arms are weak. Just remain calm and let me care for you."

John squinted up at him through the water cascading over his head. Sherlock gave John his best sad face.

"Oh, all right then."

Holding John's jaw with his fingertips, Sherlock gently washed away the invisible blood from beneath his nose. The waterproof bandages covering the doctor's stitches seemed to be doing their job, so when John tried to protest again, Sherlock doused his soldier with a spray of water, earning him the familiar Watson glare.

"Sherlock!"

"Sorry, John, my mistake."

Squeezing a liberal amount of shampoo onto John's head, Sherlock massaged until John's hair disappeared beneath the foam. His army doctor moaned and shivered his approval.

"Rinsing now, John. Close your eyes."

John's heavy sigh indicated that his patience had worn thin. It disappeared altogether when Sherlock soaped the flannel and attempted to wash John intimately.

"Sherlock, no!"

Considering their relationship, the detective was surprised at John's outburst. Immediately contrite, he offered the flannel to John, but not without the wronged expression that sometimes got past John's manipulation radar. He couldn't ignore the odd ache at the center of his chest, and only at the last did he discover that his usually impenetrable feelings might be hurt.

"I'm sorry...I...would you rather I leave?"

John shook his head, washing himself with great difficulty and stubborn resolve. "I'm sorry...I shouldn't have shouted. I...you were trying to be helpful. Thank you."

Three-hundred-seventy-three under the Watson radar hits! Sherlock crowed inwardly for all of five seconds. His inner John warned him it was a bit not good.

"Not to worry, John. It's been a difficult day. You finish up and I'll prepare something for us to eat."

He was hurt. Was he hurt? Why was he hurt? The answer was simple: Because it was John.

Sherlock took just a few steps away, pulling the door closed behind him. He stood outside for a moment, hesitating, fingers splayed against the door, when he heard a thump and a splash.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock waited, fighting the retaliation he knew was unfair. Why did he wait? John needed him. No, not good at all. 

"Sherlock?"

He didn't want John to feel helpless, yet he waited a few moments longer. Like a punch in the face without the subtext, he realized that the Sherlock he was before John had somehow found a breach. He regretted not deleting the earlier Sherlock each time John nurtured the new one. This was the Sherlock John had helped him not to be anymore. The one the consulting detective now despised. There was a mole in his mind palace.

"Shit."

Sherlock smiled a bit at the familiar Watson expletive, then frowned, then felt unkind. 

"Sherlock? Are you still there? Sherlock?"

The detective leaned his forehead against the door, feeling every bit the bad man he always knew he was. 

"Sherlock, please, my arms are too weak, can't hold my weight...Sherlock, please, help."

Ignoring John any longer was too much for Sherlock to bear.

"Sherlock? Please?"

It was John's last small, vulnerable plea that finally reached his heart and woke him from his...whatever it was that had scrambled his thoughts and separated him from the good doctor. 

For all John's quiet bravado and toughness in dangerous situations, within him dwelt a man of deep, tender emotions. Rarely, when exhaustion and pain overwhelmed him, John allowed him, and only him, to witness his tears. On those rare occasions, Sherlock was privileged to be the one to comfort his well loved puddle of tears, sobs...and snot. Disgusting and unsanitary, but true. And oddly endearing.

Silently berating himself for selfishly wanting John to need him, and then wrongly ignoring him, Sherlock stepped inside to find John sitting in the now empty tub, his forehead resting on his knees. 

Biting his lip to halt the burning behind his eyes, and without a word, Sherlock rinsed John with warm water from the sprayer, helped him out of the tub and patted him dry. It took just a few minutes to dress the doctor in his favorite oatmeal flannel pyjamas and his dressing gown.

John sat on the toilet seat staring at the floor, obviously embarrassed for reasons Sherlock didn't understand. He'd seen John naked many times, yet he doubted that was the reason for John's distress. Kneeling on the floor, Sherlock curled his hands over John's and leaned forward to bump their noses and steal a kiss. It was at that moment that a tear dropped onto his hand and he couldn't pretend it was from the doctor's wet hair.

"I'm sorry?"

John sniffed. "Don't apologize if you haven't done anything to apologize for."

"I wasn't certain...I would never...it..." He chewed on his lower lip, unsure of what to say. "It makes me sad to see you like this."

"It's just..."

"You feel helpless?"

John nodded.

"Sometimes I feel helpless, too."

John shook his head. "When have you ever felt helpless?"

The sharp edge to John's voice was understandable, but Sherlock took no offense at the half-hearted accusation. Instead, he raised John's head with a finger under his chin and pressed their mouths together. Kisses almost always worked. The doctor leaned into his warmth and protested when he pulled away.

"At this moment and every time you're hurt, or sad, or angry with me and I don't know how to make it better because I don't always understand the emotional nuances?"

John held his gaze, but it was filled with a warmth that made him appear as vulnerable as Sherlock felt.

"Oh," John whispered, as if placing a period at the end of an awkward moment.

Sherlock rested his forehead against John's. "Mrs. Hudson left us dinner in the fridge. And she wrote out instructions for me on how to warm it. Keep me company?"

John nodded. "Yes, all right."

"Here are your slippers," Sherlock said, politely refusing to grimace at what barely passed for indoor footwear.

"Thank you."

Once John toed into his ratty slippers, he stood to follow Sherlock to the kitchen. The detective, noting that John was a bit unsteady, stayed at his side, holding his hand as they walked. When John stepped to the counter, Sherlock hesitated a moment, then rested his hands on John's shoulders.

"John, allow me to prepare dinner?"

"But I want to help."

John's tone was like that of a petulant child. Sherlock knew better than to challenge him when he was grumpy or less than healthy, so he gave in to John's request. "Very well."

Once Mrs. Hudson's stew was in the microwave, he turned back to see John standing in front of the cupboard staring at the door above shoulder height.

"John?"

Although his fingers functioned perfectly, John struggled to lift his arms to the counter top.

"I...can't...I'm afraid I'll drop the dishes."

Coming up behind his doctor, Sherlock circled his arms across John's chest and held him close, pressing his cheek against John's.

"It's all right, John. Why don't you sit at the table. I'll make tea while we wait."

"I...okay."

When John dropped into a chair with a huff of frustration, Sherlock stared at him, again unsure of what to say. A grumpy John Watson was usually a vulnerable John Watson. The kettle whistled and the moment passed, but while he prepared their tea, he kept an eye on John.

The doctor sat slumped in his chair, staring at the table top for long moments before reaching for the cup in front of him. He cried out as a spasm gripped his arm. The cup tipped, splashing hot liquid over the back of his hand. Sherlock bolted from his chair, manhandling John toward the sink to hold his hand under cold water.

"John?"

When the doctor pulled his hand from beneath the water, Sherlock held fast to his wrist, examining the skin for blistering. He found none.

"I don't think the tea was hot enough to cause damage, do you?"

John flexed his hand and fingers. "No."

Sherlock kissed the reddened skin. "John, tell me."

John hung his head. Sherlock thought he wouldn't answer, but just as the microwave stopped, John looked up at him.

"I'm...tired of being...kidnapped."

Tucking John beneath his chin, Sherlock held him tightly against his chest. "I know...I'm sorry. This was all my fault. We should have gone together."

"No, Sherlock, I was angry and I went off alone and got kidnapped again. I was careless, and I know better than to let my guard down."

"There aren't enough words in my vocabulary to adequately express how thankful I am that you are safe and here, relatively unscathed, in my arms."

Sherlock wasn't certain whether to expect tears or laughter when John's body began to shake and he lifted his head from where it was mashed against Sherlock's shirt. The hint of a smile played with his lips.

"You have a plethora of words, love, and I adore every one of them."

"Dinner?"

"Starved."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, lowering his head to steal a kiss that in the end lasted much longer than he anticipated. John's racing heart shouted how he felt about it.

After serving two bowls, he collected two spoons, two napkins and joined John at the table.

The doctor stared at the bowl and sighed.

"You're sighing a lot."

"Yes."

"You're angry with me?"

"No, I'm the only one I should be angry with."

"I'm sorry you're were hurt."

John said no more. He tried to lift his arms again, but failed, frustration evident in his frown. Sherlock reached across to place John's weakened arms onto the table. His heart clenched as he watched his best friend struggle to bring each spoonful to his mouth. They ate in silence, John with his eyes downcast. Sherlock watched him, wanting to help, wanting to feed him, but knowing John would not welcome the gesture.

After clearing the table and setting the dishes in the sink, Sherlock stood behind John, massaging the offending muscles with firm fingers.

"I know it's early, John, but you need painkillers and sleep."

John grimaced as he stood, shuffling toward the bedroom, his movements sluggish, as though walking was the last thing he wanted to do.

~0~

"Mmmmm."

"Good?"

"Mmmmmmmmm."

"More?"

"Please."

"Harder?"

"God, yes...owwww!"

"Sorry...stop?"

"No, don't...stop."

"Is there any part of you that doesn't hurt?"

John sighed the sigh of exhaustion. "My eyelashes, I think."

Sherlock's thighs burned and quivered from straddling John's hips for nearly an hour. "John, I don't think I can keep this up much longer."

"Just a bit longer, Sherlock? Please?"

Sherlock sighed dramatically as he leaned up to kiss the sensitive spot behind John's ear, but he really didn't mind. He kissed the skin where neck met shoulder. John shivered and Sherlock grinned.

"Ohhhh, yes, right there."

The consulting masseur pressed his thumbs deep into the shoulder muscles, easing the pressure at the more tender areas. "Here?"

"Mrrpft."

"Was that a yes?"

"Mmmmmmmmm."

"How about here?"

"Argh."

Sherlock rarely giggled, but he allowed it for John. Anything for John.

"John, you are decidedly not a pirate. That's my area, remember?"

"Yes, sor-ry."

He kissed John's cheekbone. "Don't be."

"Okay."

"Are your arms still...?"

"Prickly?"

"I was going to say, painful, but prickly suits."

"Yes, still p-prick-y"

Sherlock, grinning at John's pillow muffled reply, kissed his neck again.

"I think that will do for now, John. If you still feel...prickly tomorrow, I will massage your back and shoulders again.

"Thannnk yoouuu."

Sherlock turned John onto his back and pulled the duvet over him. John's eyelids drifted shut, but he forced them open again when Sherlock kissed the corner of his mouth.

"Rest now. I won't be far."

"Sherrr-lock...don't go."

"Shh, whinging, John. It's not dignified."

"Don't go...please? It's...I'm shivery?"

"Five minutes, John."

John moaned his displeasure. "O-kay."

Once the flat was secured, Sherlock returned to the bedroom to find John asleep. After turning off the lamp, he sat on the edge of the bed for a long while just watching the slow rise and fall of John's chest.

John's declaration that he was tired of being kidnapped weighed heavily on the detective. John knew the dangers of The Work, that he would always be a target for those who wanted to get to Sherlock Holmes. Knowing that didn't make it easier for either of them, but loving John heightened his own anxiety by a thousand. Of the few he recognized, losing John always would be his greatest fear.

Sherlock groaned, then went silent when John stirred and reached for him. He crawled over John and lay beside him.

"Prick-ling's...nearly gone now."

Sherlock smiled at the whisper of John's sleep-slurred words.

"That's good," Sherlock whispered back when his voice faltered.

As the emotional walls he'd just that day assembled to contain his fear for John's safety trembled along with his body, Sherlock gathered John close, imprisoning the doctor's arms between them.

Nuzzling into his neck, John sighed his content sigh, feathering his surgeon's fingers along Sherlock's collarbone.

"What's wrong, love?"

Sherlock held his breath at the sudden realization that John knew. John always knew. He could not contain his trembling, or banish it to keep it from John. His eyes filled without his permission, his throat closing so suddenly that he had no time to bite back a sob.

John shifted at once, planting his foot on Sherlock's bent knee, and pushed himself upward so they faced each other, silent, for long seconds, just breathing.

"Don't. Sherlock. Don't blame yourself."

Sherlock held John's wide-eyed, now fully awake gaze, no longer able to hide his tears and no longer wanting to do so. John's warm hands cradled his face as deep, painful sobs erupted from his throat.

"Hey, it's not your fault."

John kissed his eyes and the tears beneath, finally settling over his mouth.

"Not your fault, love." Kiss. "Not your fault." Kiss. Kiss.

Burying his face against John's shoulder, he swallowed great sobs.

"Shh. Hush now, it's all right."

"John."

"I know, you were afraid, but I'm all right now."

"John."

"Sherlock, let's just be here, right now. Delete what happened before. Would you do that for me?"

"Jawn?"

Sherlock knew the instant John went still at the sound of his name, an echo of long ago insecurities tossed aside and now vaguely remembered. Curly head cradled over a strong, steady heart, John's loving touch upon his cheek calming like nothing else ever would, Sherlock held firm until he heard John's familiar grunt.

"It's all right now, love," John whispered. "Let it go. You don't have to be afraid."

"Jawn," he whispered back.

"I'm here."

When their mouths found each other with desperate little kisses, Sherlock curled into John's body and let himself be smothered in John's comforting embrace.

"I'm still here," John breathed against his mouth. "I'm still here."


End file.
